


The Recluse Redhead

by Notevenaproperword



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9566117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notevenaproperword/pseuds/Notevenaproperword
Summary: She writes her loneliness in so many words, they become her friends.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this title sucks. I'm sorry, I hope the text doesn't.

Felicia does her best to fit in. She should after all, the women here are like her: pretty and educated. (At least the ones she has the right to talk to). They are decorative. 

Mrs M’s insults are strangely reassuring now. 

They play their parts well, they smile and pretend to be happy and charming. But all they seem to want is to go back to England and cheat on their husbands with other dignitaries and boys they then accuse of assault. (In no particular order.) They send them to their deaths. Felicia doesn’t like this one bit, Father Brown would be appalled. She tries to save a man once but she fails. Lady Felicia Montague is the wife of the governor and her behaviour is deemed suspicious. Monty tells her she’s embarrassing him. She keeps quiet. She feels ridiculous, not unlike when she was not Felicia but Windy. She tries her best to fit in but the damage is done. The other women are gracious toward her. They smile and compliment her on the way her hair is done, the way she is dressed and the way she seems to fare as the governor’s wife. But Felicia knows that the moment she turns away, they are cutting, cruel and judging. She does not really blame them, they are bored. It stings at first, just like her skin reddens in the sun. It is because the criticisms are not spoken to her that she is hurt. She misses Mrs M’s directness. 

Soon the sting fade away, her skin gets used to the sun, or at least Felicia pretends it is the case. (All her freckles can’t hide how red her shoulders get when she’s not careful). Hurt is replaced by boredom. There’s no crime to solve here, no priest to visit. (There’s one but he’s clearly not Father Brown and he spends his time hiding from the rest of them). Boredom settles in. Straying does not seem as entertaining as it did before. Felicia develops mind games and becomes rather good at finding everyone’s little secrets. 

She tries to write stories but she’s never satisfied. Instead she writes about her life, about appearances and backstabbing, about human nature and its ugliness. She writes her loneliness in so many words, they become her friends; and letters. She writes letters to Kembleford, a dozen a day : Inspiring and adventurous for the father, full of gossip, love affairs and excitement to Mrs M. Bunty gets telegrams and half finished notes telling her to be good while she, Felicia, pretends she has a party to attend. They are pretty lies, ink embroideries matching the beauty of Mrs M’s. 

(She writes more letters than she sends. She burns the others, and the tears they carry.)

She reads a lot. Books of all kind. And Mrs M’s letters, many times over. Bridgette tells her about Bunty and the latest gossip about the parish. (Mrs M doesn’t call it gossip but ‘pieces of the parish’s daily life'.) Bunty’s are rarer and written in the same fashion as her aunt’s, she complains about being stuck in the country too. (Although it is quite clear she’s having the time of her life running, as she does, after assassins and thiefs.) Father Brown does not write a lot, he trusts Mrs M to do it in his place but sometimes, he scribbles a few words about Bunty, or Sid’s whereabouts or Mrs M’s latest outrage. (He never writes about how unbalanced the women’s choir sounds without her voice or how Bunty never screams when she finds a body.)

She submits her little notes and considerations under a pen name to the local papers and soon Mr K.Feld (OBE)’s chronics are all the rage among the British society of Northern Rhodesia. She never names anyone yet, it is fairly easy to guess the identity of her characters. She even makes quips about her and Monty. The first time he’s mentioned, his face takes the colour of the lipstick she’s wearing that day. She turns her laugh into an outraged groan. He promises he’ll get to the bottom of this story. (He doesn’t.) She’s reminded of Inspector Mallory. (She has to admit that somewhere, deep, deep, deep inside a very, very, very small part of her being misses him.) 

She feels miserable sometimes but somehow, she has her husband’s attention now. He finds her changed but they never talk. They never did. (She guesses that he’s lonely too.) She is not the girl he knew many years ago. He is compelled to think that he knew her once. (He’s mistaken.) His wife is a foreign country he went too earlier in his life but has now been through three coups and a republic. He is more than satisfied to trade with her but he gave up trying to understand her deeper needs and wants. Concern remains, not very strong, at the back of his mind. Concern he does not know how to express. Status quo until they receive a telegram from their niece. 

_father sick. must come at once._

The message is cryptic. Is Bunty talking about her own father or about Father Brown? Felicia loses her colours as soon as she reads it. Monty holds her hand and tells her to go. (He could have tried to call but he figures letting her go is the right thing to do.) 

* * *

 

Felicia finds out her brother is fine as soon as she arrives back in England. She calls Bunty and her niece picks her up at Kembleford station two hours later. The air is colder, the weather seems less bleak. 

Bunty seems unfazed, her aunt is tense. 

"You look awful."  
  
Felicia frowns. Bunty remembers her telegram and smiles mischievously. Something is wrong.  
  
"One of my friends is in Northern Rhodesia and she is an avid follower of Mr K. Feld’s chronics," She states matter-of-factly and Felicia arches an eyebrow. "Anyway, it’s funny because Father Brown took a liking to anagrams and he’s been teaching me."  
  
Felicia opens her mouth but Bunty is quicker.

"Mr K. Feld (OBE) is an anagram for Kembleford."

"Bunty would you please get to the point? Is Father Brown fine?"

"Oh yes! He’s in tremendous health! I just thought that the _recluse redhead_ needed a getaway."

"Bunty!"

She is speechless; she could slap the girl. 

"Mrs McCarthy told me you were an awful writer but your column is rather good."  
  
Felicia smiles; she could kiss the girl.

"Do they know I’m coming?" She asks letting relief washing over her.

"No. It's a surprise for all of you!"  
  


Father Brown calls Mrs M as soon as he recognizes Felicia in Bunty’s passenger seat. Bunty honks too. The woman emerges from the kitchen. Annoyance written all over her face. She’s in the middle of preparing her award winning scones and she needs calm to do so.   
  
" What on ear —"  
  
Her sentence is cut abruptly short by surprise. Lady Felicia stands like an awkward young girl on the garden’s path. She smiles shyly and fidgets with her gloves. Bridgette doesn’t even bother to wipe her hands on her apron and fills the distance between them with three long strides.   
  
"My dear girl," she starts solemnly, touching Felicia’s cheeks with her flour-covered fingers. "The sun has not been kind to you."  
  
There’s a light touch of disapproval in her tone but a large layer of concern too.

Felicia chuckles as Mrs McCarthy seizes one of her hands to drag her inside the rectory.


End file.
